


drop everything now

by tintedglasses



Series: Take Your Winterhawk to Work Day AU [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bucky Barnes Goes to Therapy, Bucky has a prosthetic arm, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Deaf Clint Barton, First Meetings, Insecure Clint Barton, M/M, Meddling Natasha Romanov, Take Your Fandom to Work Day, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, clint is thirsty, kind of, not in this fic specifically but it is mentioned, psychology department au, the woes of managing a research study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 00:21:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18727858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tintedglasses/pseuds/tintedglasses
Summary: Sometimes, Clint thinks that managing this research study couldn't possibly be more simultaneously boring and stressful. But working in the psych department has its perks when research participant Bucky Barnes knocks on his door.Or, in honor of Take Your Fandom To Work Day, here's what I wish would happen to me at my job.





	drop everything now

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time that I have ever written and posted a fic in one day, but hey, I'm trying to teach myself the whole 'perfect is the enemy of good' thing and this is probably a good step, right?
> 
> Steph ([1000_directions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1000_directions/pseuds/1000_directions)) recently got me into Winterhawk and when I saw the Take WInterhawk to Work prompt for Mandatory Fun Day, I couldn't resist, even though I was late to actually write it. So, I hope you enjoy Clint as the project manager of a psych study (which totally isn't a self-insert because I hate coffee) and Bucky as a research participant.
> 
> Title from "Sparks Fly" by Taylor Swift, because if Bucky came into my office, I'd for sure drop whatever I was doing. Also, this is unbeta’d, so all mistakes are mine :)

Clint slumps in his chair, clutching his too hot coffee close to his face, hoping the caffeine will somehow absorb into his veins through his skin via diffusion. Well, he’s pretty sure that’s not how any of that works, but he has a psych degree, not a biology degree, so fuck off. And he’s tired, so at this point, he’d even accept a placebo effect. 

The seats at the edge of the room where he’s sitting aren’t as comfortable as the ones around the conference table in the center of the room, but if he sits at the conference table, he might have to talk to some faculty member and that is not happening today. So instead, he just shifts a few times, trying to find a comfortable spot for his ass before giving up and just accepting that this hour is going to be uncomfortable. At least it’s a break from doing actual work. 

People are slowly filtering in the room, but he doesn’t look up at any of them until someone plops in the chair next to him, nudging his shoulder.

“Hey, what’s this colloquia about?” It’s Nat, thank god. 

“Hell if I know,” Clint answers. He takes a sip of his coffee, hissing as it burns his tongue. He pauses for a second to weigh the consequences before shrugging and taking a big gulp. He exhales hard after swallowing, hoping to cool down his mouth a little.

When he looks over at Nat, she’s staring at him with one brow perfectly arched. “For someone so smart, you really are an idiot, you know that?”

Clint sighs, “Reminded of it every day.”

Nat’s eyebrow lowers, softening her expression. “You alright?”

“Fine,” Clint says, wiggling back a little in his chair. His legs are totally going to fall asleep today. “Just remind me to never take a project manager job for a study ever again. Especially not one with the military.”

Nat hums, “Base access issues again?”

Oh, thank god it’s not that. That was a six week fiasco that just finally got resolved. “No, surprisingly not. Scheduling this time.”

“Ah,” Nat says, taking a sip of her water. 

“Yeah, I just get all these plans laid out of like when visits need to go and it takes me for-fucking-ever because I have like zero organization skills—" and he really shouldn’t have put ‘excellent attention to detail’ on his resume because that is NOT a skill he has, “—and then the military plays musical chairs and decides to move people to different stations, so I have a ton of last minute visits to schedule before they move off to San Diego or Florida or wherever.”

“See, this is why I work with vets,” Nat says. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Clint grumbles. Fuck, he really doesn’t want to go back to his office and figure out this month’s clusterfuck of a schedule. “Well, either way, I have one blissful hour right now where I don’t have to do any of it, so I’m looking forward to that.”

As if on cue, one of the grad students stands up at the front to introduce the colloquia speaker, who is apparently some professor here to talk about advances in detecting cortisol levels using hair samples. 

Nat whispers, “Mm, hair sampling. Blissful indeed.” 

Clint just rolls his eyes and prepares to let his brain wander for the next 59 minutes.

* * *

Nat only has to nudge him awake twice during the colloquia, which he’s actually pretty proud of. Plus, it doesn’t look like any of the faculty noticed him nod off either, which is a bonus. 

The dread in his gut slowly returns as they get up and shuffle out of the room, his mind already trying to work through how he is going to fit all of the participants in without anyone getting too far off of their timelines. Fuck longitudinal studies, honestly.

“Well, that was boring,” Nat says as they go down a hall to the left, “and I even like cortisol sampling.”

Clint grunts in the affirmative. It hadn’t been one of the best speakers they’ve ever had and he doesn’t think it’s completely due to his lack of interest in the subject either. 

They head down a hall towards the right as she asks, “Where’s Maria? I didn’t see her today.” 

“She’s in Bethesda this week. Some NIH thing.” Clint may hate being a project manager sometimes, but he does not envy the PI of his study. A week in a basement room in Maryland spent reading over grant proposals does not sound like his idea of a great time.

“Too bad she can’t help you with this scheduling thing,” Nat frowns, as they round yet another corner. Psych buildings are so confusing.

He shrugs. “She usually just stares at me while I talk in circles until I come up with a solution.” She seems to think he’s much more capable than he actually is and he wonders when he’s going to screw up enough for her to notice that she’s wrong.

“I could see her doing that,” she chuckles. “Anyways, I’m going to go get some lunch. Want anything?”

“Yes,” Clint says immediately and emphatically. “Can you get—“

“No, I will not get you pizza. You look dead on your feet. You need something healthy.”

He resists the urge to stomp his foot. Barely. “Do you torture people in that lab of yours, too? Or is it just me?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’ll get you a wrap from that smoothie place.”

“Ugh, I guess.” Those are actually pretty good, so it could be worse. Plus, he’s got an old slice in his office fridge that he can eat later anyways.

“Alright. I’ll be back, then. Have fun.” She says winking at him, even though she surely knows how much fun he will _not_ be having.

“Kay, just knock on my door.”

“Will do,” she says, before turning left to go towards the exit.

He turns right and slumps back to his office, closing the door. Sitting in his chair with his head tilted back, he allows himself a few heavy sighs just to set the mood before opening his participant information spreadsheets and his email.

Before he can even attempt to decide who he is going to try to email first ( _should he go with a nice participant first to get the ball rolling or start with the mean ones because the nice ones will be less mad when he emails them last minute?_ ), there’s a knock at his door.

He glances down at his clock to see that it’s only been four minutes since he got back. Nat definitely shouldn’t be back yet, unless she didn’t end up going. Oh, shit, he didn’t give her any money for his wrap.

Clint reaches behind him to open the door without looking while trying to pull his backpack out from under his desk. “Hold on, I’ve got some cash right here.”

“Uh.”

Clint jumps at the very male, very not-Natasha voice and hits his head on the underside of his desk. “Fffff—ow.”

He slides his chair back, rubbing the back of his head. Could this day get worse?

“Are you okay?” the voice asks. 

Clint feels the back of his neck burn. He almost forgot someone else was there to see that. “Happens all the time. I’m fine.”

He gets out of his chair with his hand still on the back of his head, but it drops when he sees who’s in his doorway. It’s definitely not Nat and it’s also not anyone who works here, that’s for damn sure. There’s no way Clint wouldn’t have noticed this guy.

He has shoulder length hair, which Clint usually negatively associates with that annoying douchebag in the English department who never hesitates to tell people he studies feminist lit but who Clint also knows complains about ‘those fucking bitches’ in his department at happy hour, but damn is it working for this guy. Clint might have to rethink his whole feelings on the look.

And his shoulders—goddamn. He’s wearing a hoodie, but Clint can tell that they are broad, wider than Clint’s for sure. Where his hoodie is unzipped, Clint can see a grey T-shirt that stretches across his collarbones, clinging to his pecs and abdomen. It almost makes him want to take an anatomy class so he can name each individual muscle he can see, because he bets there are like twenty he could point out. 

Clint glances at his denim clad legs, but looks away quickly because if he has any hope of trying to carry on a conversation, he can’t take another look at this guy’s thighs.

The guy shifts on his feet, glancing over his shoulder briefly. 

Fuck, Clint should probably say something.

“Hi, I’m Clint,” he says, his hand shooting out way too fast. The guy jumps at the suddenness of Clint’s movement. Clint grimaces. “Shit, sorry. Came in a little hot there.”

The guys looks up at Clint—and holy moly, those eyes—before tentatively reaching out to shake Clint’s hand. Clint squeezes in order to give a firm shake, but there is no give. He glances down to see a prosthesis. Ahh, one of Nat’s participants, then.

The guy pulls his hand back a little quicker than what's normal and his cheeks go a little pink. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I know it’s weird.”

“Dude, I just offered you cash and hit my head on my desk. I’m weird, not you. Plus, I know a little thing about plastic enhancements,” Clint taps his hearing aid, turning so the guy can see it.

“Oh,” the guy says. “Well, I’m looking for Ms. Romanoff. Is this...she emailed me and said this was the room number?”

Suddenly Natasha’s wink as she left makes a lot more sense. Actually, since when does she even offer to get lunch? If Clint wasn’t so stressed about this scheduling nightmare, he probably would have noticed this was a set up a lot longer ago.

“She must have sent the wrong office number. She’s one down from me.”

“Oh, sorry to interrupt, then.” The guy turns back towards the door.

And Clint really shouldn’t because he really does have work to do but— “She just went to get lunch and won’t be back for a little bit. You can sit in here if you want.”

The guy turns back. “Oh. Okay. If you’re sure.”

“Well, there is one condition.”

The guy stiffens a little, his shoulders tense. “What?”

Clint smiles at him, hoping to put him at ease a little. He may not get to interact with participants much anymore now that he’s not a research assistant, but he likes to think this is the part he’s best at. “You have to tell me your name. I can’t keep referring to you as ‘the guy’ in my head.”

“James,” he says, his shoulders losing their tension. Good. “Or—Bucky. You can call me Bucky.”

“Okay, Bucky,” Clint says, happy to have gotten a nickname. Maybe he really does still have his touch. He sits back down in his chair, minimizing his email and spreadsheet, and motions to a seat for Bucky to take.

Bucky glances at his computer as he sits. “You can do work if you need to. Don’t let me stop you.”

“Nah, lunch will be here soon anyways, so there’s no sense in starting anything.” If Clint’s being honest with himself, he was two seconds away from pulling his phone out before Bucky showed up. "you’re saving me, really. I do not want to do the work I need to do right now.”

“I’m glad to be of help,” Bucky gives him a small smile. He looks around the room, his gaze landing on the dart board across from his seat. He gestures at the holes in the wall around it. "Are you practicing?"

"Those holes aren't from me," Clint says. Bucky looks like he doesn't believe him. "I swear. I never miss. But, tip: never let the undergrads have access to your dart collection during finals. The stress makes them all a terrible shot."

“Makes sense.” Moving his gaze away from the board, he continues to take stock of Clint's office. “So, do you work with Ms. Romanoff?” 

Clint laughs and Bucky looks at him, his brow furrowed. “Sorry, it’s weird to hear you call her that. Makes her sound all official.” Bucky’s brow furrows further. “Not that she isn’t official,” he backpedals. “She’s very professional. A great researcher.”

Bucky hums, squinting at Clint. He would almost say it’s a little playful.

“No, really, you’re in great hands.” Nat would kill him if he scared away her participant. He knows her lab is having a hard time recruiting and really needs to hit their numbers this quarter.

Bucky looks down at his hands, whatever playfulness might have been there dimmed. “So you know why I’m here, then.”

Clint knows that the PI of Nat’s lab studies PTSD in wounded veterans, so yeah he’s pretty sure he knows why Bucky is here. “I mean, vaguely, yeah. I don’t know anything about you, though, because we aren’t in the same lab, so there’s confidentiality rules and all that.”

“My Humvee got hit by a rocket-propelled grenade and I lost my arm at the elbow.” Bucky says it in a monotone voice, like this isn’t the first or even twentieth time he’s had to say it to a stranger.

Well, alright, then. “I mean, I wasn’t going to ask, but damn, that really sucks.”

Bucky shrugs. “It’s easier to just say it. I don’t like people trying to figure me out.”

Clint laughs, hoping to get them back to that place of ease from a few moments ago. “Well I’m definitely not qualified to do any kind of analyzing, so don’t worry about that.”

“What do you do then?” Bucky adjusts lower in his chair, inadvertently spreading his thighs wider, the denim straining to confine the muscles. It feels more inappropriate to think this after talking to Bucky, but damn, does Clint want to sit on his lap.

 _Be professional, Clint,_ he admonishes himself. _Not the time._

He clears this throat and looks away from the thighs. “Uh, I’m the manager for a different lab here. So mostly just like scheduling and administrative stuff. Kinda boring.”

“That does sound boring,” Bucky says, shocking a laugh out of Clint. Bucky smiles sheepishly, “No offense.”

“No, I said it first,” Clint says, waving a hand. “It’s true.”

They’re quiet for a moment after that, but it isn’t awkward. Clint can tell that Bucky is turning something over in his head and he’s learned from interviewing participants that sometimes people just need a little bit of space to work out what they want to say.

Soon enough, Bucky leans forward in his chair to brace his elbows on his knees, his hair obscuring his face, and says, “Since I got out of the hospital, I don’t really know what to do with my life, you know? I just feel so...stagnant now and my buddy keeps trying to tell me to relax and take my time to recover, but I’m so bored all the time. And I think lately I’ve been thinking that life is too short to spend so much time feeling uninterested.” Bucky pauses before shaking his head, a rueful smile on his face. He looks back up at Clint. “Sorry, I’ve been to too many group therapy sessions lately, so I’m not used to having a conversation without it turning into an opportunity for introspection.”

Clint swallows, feeling unexpectedly emotional. This isn’t really what he expected from this conversation. “No, man, that’s...that’s true. I mean, this job’s only temporary but some days, I really don’t know why I’m spending two years of my life on something that I don’t even like.”

Well, he didn’t really expect to say that either, but what the hell? He works in a psych department; randomly deep conversations on a Thursday afternoon aren’t that rare.

“So, what are you doing after this?” Bucky asks.

Clint’s frozen for a second before he realizes that Bucky means ‘after this’ as in ‘after this temporary job’, not as in the common pick up line. A guy can wish, though. “I’m applying to grad school, but I don’t know,” Clint ducks his head, rubbing the back of his neck. It still feels like someone is going to swoop in to tell him he’s not worthy if he speaks it aloud. “The programs are all really competitive and I don’t really know why they’d take me, so. Might be a waste of money.”

Bucky thinks long enough that Clint looks up from the floor to look at Bucky, who’s looking at his hands. “Well, there is more than one way to quantify success. Maybe it’s not even about whether or not you get in, but being willing to try.”

Clint leans back in his chair. “Another group therapy thing?”

The tips of Bucky’s ears go red. He looks up at Clint and shrugs a shoulder. “Can’t help it.”

Clint laughs, the somber mood broken. “No biggie.” Bucky smiles tentatively at him and Clint smiles back. “Actually, thank you for saying that. It’s...it’s nice to hear.”

Bucky’s eye get softer, “No problem.”

They sit in silence again, just looking at each other. Bucky opens his mouth to say something, but is interrupted by a knock at the door.

Nat opens the door and tosses a brown paper bag on Clint’s desk. “You owe me five bucks.” She looks over and spots Bucky. “Oh, hello, James. I’m Natasha Romanoff. I am so sorry to have kept you waiting. I hope you don’t mind.” 

Clint would never get away with making a participant wait for twenty minutes, in the wrong office no less, but from the way Nat is aiming her perfect ‘you don’t have a problem with this, do you?’ smile at Bucky, he knows it’s going to be fine.

Bucky sits up straight in his chair, his thumb rubbing against the metal of the arm where he’s gripping it. “Oh, no, I understand.” 

God, Clint wishes he could get away with things like that sometimes. 

“Great. Well, why don’t we go ahead and go to my office to get started and leave Clint to his work,” she says as she leads Bucky towards the door.

Clint groans internally at the reminder of the work he has to do. At least he can justify postponing it for five more minutes while he eats his wrap.

“Bye, Clint,” Bucky says, the tension back in his shoulders as he heads to his interview. Poor guy. At least he knows that, despite what it would seem, Nat is actually great at making people comfortable when they are making themselves vulnerable. 

Clint waves goodbye and tries to ignore his disappointment as Bucky and Nat leave. It’s difficult because not only did he enjoy talking to Bucky for the last half an hour, he also is really sad to only get a view of his ass once because that is an ass that definitely deserves a second look.

He lets himself think about Bucky until he finishes his wrap and then he compartmentalizes it, chalking it up to a missed opportunity. It’s not like he can ask Nat for his phone number even though he knows she has it. Damn the institutional review board and their confidentiality rules. Besides, if Bucky was interested, he would have asked for Clint’s number, but it probably wasn’t even like that for Bucky anyways. 

He throws away his trash and reopens the spreadsheets, determined now to get this scheduling done. The more busy his mind is, the less it can wander over to the fact that Bucky is in the next room. He eventually gets into the flow and manages to work out a new plan for how to fit all the participants in and, by some miracle, is able to schedule the first three participants he calls in the exact time he wanted them. He’s so engrossed that he must not hear the Nat’s door open, but he does hear a light knocking at his door.

He opens it, expecting it to be Nat since he never did give her money for the wrap, but to his surprise, it’s Bucky.

“Uh, hey,” Clint says, not sure what Bucky wants. “Did you leave something?”

“What?” Bucky looks momentarily confused. “Oh. No, I’m good. I’m sorry to interrupt you again, but I—" he ducks his head, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t do this often, but I was wondering if you wanted to get a coffee or something? After you’re done with your work, of course.”

“What?” Clint sputters and Bucky looks up, his face red. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. I just thought—“

“You want to get coffee with me?” Clint says. There’s no way it was like that for Bucky, too. Has he looked in a mirror lately? “Did I really hit my head that hard?”

Bucky’s gray eyes go steely. “You don’t have to be rude about it. You can just say no.”

And that is not what Clint meant at all. If Bucky's into this, there's no way Clint is going to say no. “Say no? Why would I do that? Have you seen your thighs? And you’re so nice and you like go to therapy and have your shit together.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that.” The tension around Bucky’s eyes is luckily gone. The corner of his mouth lifts up in a half smile. “I am here for a PTSD study after all. But if you don’t mind that...”

“I definitely don’t mind that,” Clint says because he really doesn’t. Besides, he’s got his own fair share of trauma, too, so it’s not like he’s in a place to judge. 

Bucky’s half smile turns into a full smile. “So, coffee?”

“Yes,” Clint says quickly. “I love coffee.”

Bucky laughs and damn, that’s a beautiful laugh. “Okay, how about at five at that place across the street?”

“Okay,” Clint nods a few times too many. “Yeah. Yes. Sounds good.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, and Clint can see the laughter in his eyes. Oh well, joke’s on him. He’s the one who asked Clint on the date after knowing how weird Clint is. “See you then.”

He taps his knuckles on the door frame twice and gives a little wave before he leaves. 

Clint sits back in his chair, unable to keep the smile off his face. Man, this day has really turned itself around. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s sitting there until Nat pops her head through the door. 

“You owe me one, Barton,” she says, a grin on her face.

“Lunch tomorrow?” he ventures.

“Tomorrow? Try all next week," she laughs and blows him a kiss before heading back to her office. 

Oh, well. It’ll definitely be worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> If you want, you can come say hi on [tumblr](https://tintedglasses.tumblr.com) or you can reblog my fic post here!


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